The Tower of Percemont

I

IT was in the autumn of 1873 that I first became connected with the De Nives family. It was during my vacation. I possessed at that time an annual income of about thirty thousand francs, acquired as much by my professional labor as a barrister in the royal court as by the assiduous and patient improvement of the real estate of Madame Chantabel, my wife. My only son, Henri, had just finished his law-studies at Paris, and I was expecting him the very evening when I re¬ ceived by express the following note:

“To M. Chantabel, barrister, at the Maison-Blanche, commune ofPercemont, Riom.

“SIR: May I ask for your legal advice? I know that it is your vacation, but I will come to your country-house to-morrow, if you are willing to receive me.

“ALTX, COUNTESS DE NIVES.

I replied that I should expect the countess on the next day, and immediately my wife began to find fault with me.

“You always reply at once in the same fashion,” she said, “and never let any one urge you or wait for you, just as a briefless barrister would do! You will never know how to make the most of your rank!”

“My rank? What is my rank, please tell me?”

“You have the highest legal rank in the country. Your fortune is made, and it is high time for you to take a little rest.”

“That will soon come, I hope; hut until our son has commenced the practice of his profession, and shown that he is able to take my place, I do not intend to endanger the situation. I wish to install him with ever}' chance of success.”

“You always talk in this way; you have a mania for business, and are never willing to lose a case. You will die in the harness. Let us see! Suppose Henri has not the ability to take your place?”

“Then, as I promised, I will retire and end my days in the country; hut Henri will take my place. He is a good scholar; he is well en¬ dowed—”

“But he has not your physical strength and your determined will. He is a delicate child. He takes after me.”

“We shall see! If the work is too much for him, I shall make him a consulting barrister, under my direction. I am sufficiently well known and appreciated to be sure that practice will not be wanting.”

“Well and good, I should like that better. A consulting lawyer can give his opinion without leaving his home, and while living on his es¬ tate.”

“Yes, at my age, with my reputation and experience; hut this will not do for a young man. He must live in the city, and even go to see his clients. It will he advisable that, during the first years of profes¬ sional duty, I should be near at hand in order to direct him.”

“That is just like you! you do not wish to retire! Then of what use is it to purchase a chateau and go to the expense of making it habita¬ ble, if neither of you will live there?”

My wife had induced me to purchase the manor of Percemont, situated in the very middle of our estate, in the commune of the same name. This territory, within the inclosure of our land, had been a source of trouble to us for a long time, and we desired very much to become its owners; hut the old Baron Coras de Percemont valued his ancestral manor at an exorbitant price, and determined to make the purchaser pay dear for the honor of restoring its ruins. We had given up the idea of possessing it, when the baron died without children, and the chateau, having been put up at auction, was bid off by us for a reasonable sum. At least thirty thousand francs were required to render barely habitable this nest of vultures, perched on the summit of a volcanic cone, and I was by no means so eager as my wife to incur such an expense. Our country-house, spacious, neat, convenient, sheltered by hills, and surrounded by an extensive garden, appeared to me altogether sufficient, and our acquisition had no other merit in my eyes than that of freeing us from an inconvenient and mischief¬ making neighborhood. The declivities of the rocks that bore the Tower of Percemont were available for the culture of the grape. The summit, covered with a growth of young fir-trees, would hereafter be¬ come a good cover for game, and I intended, il it were left undis¬ turbed, to have there, in time to come, an enjoyable reserve for hunt¬ ing. My wife did not take this view of the case. This great tower had disordered her brain. It seemed to her that, in perching herself there, she raised her social level five hundred feet above the level of the sea. Women have their whims; mothers have their weaknesses. Henri had always manifested so strong a desire to possess Percemont that Mad¬ ame Chantabel gave me no respite until I had bought it.

It was almost the first word she said to Henri, while embracing him, upon his arrival, for I had only been two days in full possession of my new r property.

“Thank your dear father!” she cried; “behold yourself lord of Percemont.”

“Yes,” I said, “baron of thistles and lord of screech-owls. That is something to he proud of. I think you must have some cartes de visite engraved which will acquaint the people around us with these lofty titles.”

“My titles are more lofty than those,” he replied. “I am the son of the most able and most honest man in the province. My name is Chantabel, and I consider myself as greatly ennobled by my father’s deeds; I disdain all other lordship; hut the romantic manor, the steep peak, the wild wood, are charming playthings for which I thank you, dear father, and, if you are willing, I shall find there in some pepper¬ box a little nest where from time to time I can read or dream.”

“If that is the height of your ambition, I approve,” I said, “and I give you the plaything. You will allow the game to come back which the old baron shot without cessation—having, I think, nothing else to put in his pantry—and next year we will hunt hares together. With this understanding, we will go to dinner, after which we will talk of more serious affairs.”

I had indeed serious projects for my son, and we did not discuss them for the first time. I wished him to marry his cousin, Emilie Or¬ monde, who was familiarly called Miliette, or, still better, Miette.

My late sister had married a rich countryman of the vicinity, the owner of a large farm, who had left at least a hundred thousand crowns to each of his children, Miette andjacques Ormonde. Jacques was thirty years old, Emilie was twenty-two.

When I had refreshed Henri’s memory in regard to this plan, concerning which he did not appear overanxious to converse, I watched him still more attentively, as I had attacked him brusquely in order to surprise his first impression. It was more sad than gay, and he looked toward his mother as if to seek in her eyes the answer he must make. My wife had always approved and desired this marriage; I was, then, extremely surprised when, speaking instead of her son, she said, in a reproachful tone:

“Indeed, M. Chantabel, when you have set your mind on any¬ thing, it is like an iron wedge in a piece of rock. Can you not leave a single moment of joy and liberty to this poor child, who is worn out with exhausting labor, and who needs to breathe freely? Is it necessary to talk to him so soon about putting the marriage-cord around his neck?”

“Is it, then, a cord to hang one’s self with?” I replied, a little angry; “do you find it so uncomfortable, and do you wish to make him think that his parents do not live happily together?”

“I know it is not so,” Henri replied, quickly. “I know, that we three make only one. If you both wish me to marry immediately, I stand for nothing, and wish to stand for nothing; but—”

“But, if I am entirely alone in my opinion,” I resumed, “it is I who will count for nothing. Then, we do not make one in three, and mat¬ ters will he decided between us by the majority of votes.”

“Do you know, M. Chantabel,” said my wife, who was not wanting in spirit on the occasion, “we are happy in marriage in our fashion, hut every one understands it in his own way, and since the good to look for, or the evil to risk, must be personal to our son, my opinion is, that neither of us should give him advice, hut leave him to decide the question entirely alone.”

“This is exactly the conclusion that I held in reserve,” I replied; “hut I thought that he was in love with Miette, and had decided a long time ago to marry her as soon as possible.”

“And Miette?” said Henri, earnesdy—“is she as decided as I am, and do you think that she is in love with me?”

“In love is a term which is not found in Miette’s vocabulary. You know her: a young woman, calm, pure, decided, and sincere; the per¬ sonification of integrity, goodness, and courage. It is certain that Miette has a great friendship for you. She has, besides me, only one guide and friend in this world, her brother Jacques, whom she blindly loves and respects. Miette Ormonde will marry whomsoever Jacques Ormonde chooses, and, since his childhood, Jacques Ormonde, who is your best friend, has destined his sister for you. What do you wish for better than this?”

“I could never desire nor hope for anything better it I were loved,” replied Henri; “but let me tell you, my father, that this affection on which I thought I could rely has for some time grown strangely cold. Jacques did not reply when I announced my approaching return, and Emilie’s last letters displayed a noticeable reserve.”

“Did you not set her the example?”

“Has she complained?”

“Miette never complains of anything; she only remarked a kind of preoccupation in your letters, and, when I wished her to rejoice with me at the prospect of your return, she appeared to doubt il it were as near as I announced. Come, my son, tell us the truth. You may safely make confession to your parents. I do not ask you to give an account of diversions for which Miette could reproach you. We have all passed through those, we students of former times, and I do not pretend that we were better than you; hut we returned joyfully to the sheepfold, and perhaps in your correspondence with your cousin you have suffered a regret to escape for those diversions that you would do wrong to take too seriously.”

“I hope not, my dear sir, for this regret was very light, and quickly effaced by the thought of your happiness. I do not recall any expres¬ sions that could have escaped me; surely I am not simple enough to have said, or even thought of, anything that would furnish a motive for the icy tone that my little cousin assumed in replying to me.”

“Have you the letter with you?”

“I will get it for you in a moment.”

Henri went out, and my wife, who had listened in silence, spoke up quickly.

“My friend,” she said, “this marriage is broken off; we must think of it no longer.”

“Why? Who has broken it off? For what purpose?”

“Miette is rigid and cold; she understands nothing of the require¬ ments of a life of elegance in a certain situation; she is incapable of pardoning a slight wandering from the right path in a young man's life.”

“Nonsense! what are you talking about? Miette knows very well all the follies committed by her brother when he studied law in Paris, and I do not believe Henri has a quarter as many to reproach himself for. However, Miette never manifested any disquietude or vexation; she received him with open arms when he returned, two years since, as much a seeker after adventures, and as little of a lawyer, as possible. She helped him pay his debts, without a word of reproach or regret. He told this to me not long since, adding that his sister was an angel for indulgence and generosity; and now you would like—”

Henri, who returned with the letter, interrupted us. This letter was not cold, as he pretended. Emilie was never very demonstrative, and her habitual modesty prevented her from becoming more so; but it was plain that she was under the influence of a trouble and some kind of fright in her own home that were entirely unusual. “Friendship,” she said, “is indissoluble, and you will always find in me a devoted sister; but do not distress yourself about marriage; il time for reflec¬ tion is necessary for you, it is also necessary for me, and we have made no engagement that we cannot discuss or put off, according to circum¬ stances.”

“You will remark,” observed Henri, addressing me, “that she calls me you , instead of thou, for the first time.”

“That must be your fault,” I replied. “Let us see! Come to the fact. Are you really in love, yes or no, with your cousin?”

“In love?”

“Yes, passionately in love?”

“He is at a loss how to answer you,” said my wife. “He is asking himself, perhaps, if he ever were so.”

Henri seized the line his mother held out.

“Yes,” he cried, “that is true! I do not know it the respectful and fraternal sentiment that Miette has inspired in me from childhood can he called love. Passion has never mingled with it on either side.”

“And you wish for passion in marriage?”

“Do you think I am wrong?”

“I think nothing about it; I am not making a theory. I wish to know the state of your heart. If Miette Ormonde loved some one else, you would he perfectly satisfied?”

Henri turned pale, and blushed at the same time.

“If she loves another,” he replied, in a voice full of emotion, “let her say so! I have no right to oppose her, and I am too proud to allow myself to reproach her.”

“Come!” I resumed; “the thing is clear, and the case is settled. Listen: we dined at four o’clock; it is hardly six. You can go to your cousin’s in half an hour. You will take Prunelle, your good little mare, who has not been used much during your absence, and who will be enchanted to carry you. You have nothing to say to Miette, excepting that, having this minute arrived, you hasten to grasp her hand and her brother’s. This eagerness is the most concise and clear explanation of what concerns you. You will see il it is received with pleasure or indifference. Nothing more is required for a young man of spirit. Wel¬ comed joyfully, you remain with them an hour, and return to tell us your triumph. Guided by the first words, you come back immediately without asking for anything more. It is very simple, and cuts short all the theories that we could make, as well as all the fine words we could say.”

“You are right,” replied Henri; “I will go at once.”

II

IN order to pass away the time, my wife took her knitting; I amused myself with a hook. I saw, indeed, that she was burning to contradict and quarrel with me, and I pretended not to suspect it; hut she burst out at last, and I let her alone to find out her thoughts. I discovered that her son’s marriage with Miette had become undesir¬ able in her mind, and that her letters or words had produced some influence in the estrangement of the lovers. She no longer loved her poor niece, and found her too much of a vinedresser, too humbly born, for her son; her fortune was suitable, hut Henri was an only son, and could aspire to a richer heiress. He had luxurious tastes and hab¬ its that Miette would never understand. She had made of her brother, once brilliant and polished, a great peasant, fast growing into unwieldy proportions. She had all the virtues as well as all the prejudice and obstinacy of a countrywoman. It was allowable to think of this mar¬ riage when Henri was still a scholar and a provincial. Now that he had come back from Paris in all the splendor of his beauty, his toilet, and his grand manners, he must look for a woman of quality, one capable of becoming a woman of the world.

I listened to all this in silence, and when it was ended I said:

“Do you wish me to draw a conclusion?”

“Yes; speak.”

“Well, if this marriage is detestable, it is neither Henri’s nor Miette’s fault; it is the fault of the great Tower of Percemont!”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; without this accursed tower we should always he the good and happy citizens of former times, and we should not find my sister’s children too much like peasants; but since we have machicolations above our vines, and an ornamented door to our wine-press—”

“A wine-press! You do not intend to make a wine-press of our chateau?”

“Yes, my dear friend; and il this does not put an end to your folly, I intend to pull down the old barrack!”

“You cannot do this!” cried Madame Chantabel, indignantly. “The chateau is your son’s: you gave it to him.”

“When he sees that the chateau has turned your brain, he will help me demolish it.”

My wife was afraid of raillery. She grew calm, and promised to wait patiently for Emilie’s decision; but she soon had a new source of agitation. The hours passed, and Henri did not return. I was rejoiced; I thought his cousins had kept him, and that all three were very happy in seeing each other once more. At last it was midnight, and my wife, fearing some accident, was going back and forth from the garden to the road, when the steps of Henri’s little mare were heard, and a mo¬ ment after he was close by us.

“Nothing happened to me,” he replied to his mother, who ques¬ tioned him with great anxiety. “I saw Emilie a moment, and I learned that her brother had been living for a month on his farm in Champgousse, where he is having a large building put up. Emilie, be¬ ing alone at home, gave me to understand that I must not prolong my visit; and, as it was still early, I directed my course to Champgousse to see Jacques. I did not remember the road, and went farther than was necessary. At last I sawjacques, talked and smoked an hour with him, and here I am after riding three leagues on my way back through in¬ tricate paths which, without the intelligence of my horse, I should not easily have recognized in the obscurity.”

“And how did Emilie receive you?” asked Madame Chantabel.

“Very pleasantly,” replied Henri, “as nearly as I could judge in so short a time.”

“No chiding, no reproaches?”

“None at all.”

“And Jacques?”

“He was as cordial as usual.”

“Then nothing is decided?”

“The subject of marriage was not agitated. That is a question we must discuss with you.”

My wife, reassured, retired to her room, and immediately Henri took my arm and drew me to the garden.

“I must speak to you,” he said. “What I have to tell you is very delicate, and I feared that my mother would take the matter so much to heart that she would not be prudent. This is what happened to me.”

“Sit down,” I said, “and I will listen to you.”

Henri, very much troubled, related to me what follows:

III

“FIRST, I must tell you the state of my feelings when I was going to see Emilie. It is very true that before quitting Parisian life I had a feeling of terror in thinking of marriage. The ideal dreamed of in my early youth had grown fainter year after year in the feverish atmos¬ phere of the capital. You saw me so in love with my cousin when I began my study of the law that you were afraid—I well understood it— of seeing my progress in my studies retarded by impatience to get through with them. You did not understand that this fervor of love and marriage was a phase of collegiate life, and found its natural place between the baccalaureate and the first law-entry. Perhaps you did not foresee that the impatience would very quickly be calmed, and, per¬ haps, desiring this marriage, you would have done better to allow me to come home in the vacations. You thought it your duty to divert me from an anxiety that I never felt after the first year’s absence. You passed your own vacations with me, traveled with me, took me to the sea-shore, to Switzerland, and then to Florence and Rome—in short, you so well fulfilled your duty that I did not see Emilie for four years. The result is, that I dreaded to see her again lest I should find her no longer as charming as she had appeared to me in the splendor of her eighteen years.

“I thought of this while galloping toward her abode just as the sun was setting, and was tempted to moderate Prunelle’s ardor, who went on the wings of the wind. She was forced, however, to do this for her¬ self as we approached Vignolette, and to go at a slow pace up the sandy ascent that must be climbed to gain a view of the roof of the house buried in the foliage. There my disturbed spirit also grew calm, and an indescribably tender emotion took possession of my heart. The evening was beautiful; there was a golden glow in the heavens and on the earth. The mountains appeared in the mists of a rosy violet tint. The road shone under my feet like the dust of rubies. The vines waved playfully on the hills, and the great purpled branches, loaded with fruit already black, stood erect and hung in abundant festoons over my head. Pardon me, I became a poet! My happy, youthful days appeared once more. I dreamed over the scenes of my forgotten pas¬ torals. I fancied myself transported to the time when, in my collegian’s garb—too short for my great lean arms—I approached with a palpitat¬ ing heart the abode of my little cousin, then so pretty, gracious, and confiding! I recommenced my love-dreams, and it seemed to me that hopes and desires which had taken entire possession of my being could not be a vain illusion. I spurred on my horse, and arrived, pant¬ ing, feverish, fearful, and passionately in love as when I was seventeen years old!

“Do not be impatient, my father. I must sum up what was the past a few hours ago, a past already more than a century from the present.

“I trembled when knocking at the door—that little door painted green, still frayed and mended with great nails as in former times. I took pleasure in recognizing every object and in finding the wild hon¬ eysuckle shading the rustic entrance as fresh as ever and grown into a great bush. Formerly an iron wire extending along this arbor of vines was sufficient to give entrance to familiar acquaintances without trou¬ bling any one; hut this hospitable confidence had disappeared; I had to wait at least five minutes. I said to myself: ‘Emilie is alone, and perhaps she is at the end of the inclosure. It takes time to cross the vineyard, hut she must have recognized my peculiar way of knocking;

she will come and open the door for me as in the old times!’

“She did not come; old Nicole opened the door and took hold of my horse’s bridle with an eagerness full of trouble. ‘Enter, enter, M. Henri! Yes, yes, mademoiselle is very well; she is at home, M. Henri; you must excuse us, it is washing-day, our people have all gone to the river to bring back the linen; this is the reason you had to wait. These are the days when everything is topsy-turvy, you know very well, M. Henri.’

“I cleared quickly the long and narrow walk, at least too long for my liking! Formerly they recognized my voice at a distance, and Jacques ran to meet me. Jacques was absent. Emilie came to meet me at the head of the flight of steps. She held out her hand first; hut there was more terror than joy in her surprise at seeing me. She was dressed as she used to he, in a half-girlish fashion, the muslin dress well turned back on the hips, the silk apron trimmed with lace, the little straw hat of peasant-shape turned back behind over her magnificent braids of brown hair—still as pretty as ever, perhaps even prettier! Her fresh countenance had become a little more oval in form, her eyes were larger, and a more serious expression rendered her glance more pen¬ etrating, her smile more full of meaning. I do not know what we said to each other; we were both very much moved. We asked about the news, and we did not listen to the answers.

“I understood at last that Jacques (Jaquet, as she always calls him) was putting up buildings on a farm two leagues away. Champgousse is his part of the inheritance. For a long time the stables and barns had been going to ruin. He did not wish to trust the work to a contractor, who would have charged him a high price without doing things to suit him. He had, therefore, installed himself with his tenants, so as to he there from sunrise to sunset, and watch the labor of his workmen.

‘“But he comes to see you every day?’

“‘No, it is too far away; this would oblige him to rise too early. I am going to see him next Sunday, and be sure that he does not want for anything.’

‘“It must he very tedious for him to he there alone?’

“‘No, he is so busy!’

“‘But does not this solitude make you sad?’

‘“I have no time to think of it; there is always so much to do when one has a home to take care of.'

“‘You must come and live with us!’

“‘That is impossible?’

“‘You are, then, still a model housekeeper?’

“‘It is necessary.’

“‘And you like this austere life?’

“‘As well as I ever did?’

“‘You do not think—’

“‘Of what?’

“I believe I came near committing myself, when Emilie rose ab¬ ruptly as she heard the creaking of the door of the dining-room which adjoins the salon; she rushed forward in that direction, and I heard very distinctly these words, ‘He is there—do not let him see you!’

“You start with surprise, father. I felt a rending of the heart. I heard the door shut, and Emilie returned, very much preoccupied and constrained, to ask me idle questions about your health and what you were doing; for she knows everything that concerns you, and it was I who should have learned the news from her. I saw that my pres¬ ence was torture to her, and that her eyes watched the clock in spite of hersell to count the insupportable minutes of my stay. I took my hat, saying that I had scarcely seen you, and, besides, I did not wish to constrain her. ‘You are right,’ she replied. ‘You cannot come here as you used to—I am alone in the house, and this would not he proper; hut if you will go next Sunday to see Jaquet at Champgousse, we shall meet there.' I do not remember it I made any reply. I set out, running as it my clothes were on fire, went myself to the stable for Prunelle, and started at lull speed on the road that would take me home. And then I stopped short, asking myself if I were dreaming, and if I were not insane. ‘Miette Ormonde unfaithful, or concealing a lover in her house! No, it is impossible,’ I said; ‘hut I wish to know and I will know! I w ill go and see Jacques. I will question him frankly. He is an honest man; he is my friend, and will tell me the truth.’

“I took the cross-road that leads to Champgousse. I lost my way sometimes, for it was entirely dark. At last I arrive in the obscurity, and catch a glimpse of the mass of buildings, which do not appear to me noticeably changed. I dismount in the midst of furious dogs. I look for the door of the master’s dwelling, when suddenly it half opens. In the light projected from the interior, I see the outline of Jacques Ormond’s silhouette in the attitude of getting out of bed.

“He throws himself into my arms, clasps me vigorously in his, cries out that he had gone to bed, and that he came very near taking his gun to receive me, for he thought it was a robber, the dogs made such an uproar. He took possession of Prunelle, and, still half naked, led her himself to the stable, where I followed to assist him in unbri¬ dling her. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, ‘you cannot see. I see in the night like an owl, and then I know where to find everything.’ In truth, he makes all the arrangements, gives water, grain, forage, to his ‘little friend Prunelle,’ returns without having waked any one, distributes plentiful kicks to his dogs, who still growl at me, makes me enter into his summer-room, whose sole luxury consists in guns of all calibres and pipes of all dimensions. There were neither books, an inkstand, nor pens; all was exactly like his student’s room in the Latin Quarter.